MAURICE

Maurice is an old man – he will soon turn 89.

He has the slow stooped walk of the very old. His skin is smooth and clear with deep, furrowed lines around his mouth. Bright, astute eyes weep with evidence of recent surgery. He limps, holding a cane, heavily favouring his left leg. But his wit is as sharp as ever, he still has thick, curly hair and his eyes sparkle with a lively intelligence that will never age.

Maurice has had many homes but his heart lies at Cloudy Bay lagoon on South Bruny Island.

“It has a different feel about it… when I get there I feel as if I’m home,” he says in his slow gentle drawl.

The land has been in his family since his grandfather’s brother bought it 150 years ago. Parts were sold off over the generations, until Maurice inherited ten acres. Hardships forced him to sell some and he now has a one-fifth share. Two acres is all that remains of the 164 acres Alfred Conley originally purchased, but the family name will be there for generations – Maurice’s land is at Conleys Point.

Getting to Cloudy is an adventure. First, the ferry – fun, cold and wet. Then a long drive down the island: over the neck where penguins roost and beaches look magnificent; down the dirt roads where timber houses sit, forever timeless; past the shop where Tim Tams cost a fortune but hot chips are darn good; all the way to a locked gate that accesses miles of undulating paddocks.

As you approach, the scrub crowds in. Wattles and bottlebrushes spring up over the track and recent clearing for vehicle access is evident. It regularly requires a chainsaw and brush-cutter just to get there. The car rollicks up and down sand bumps and the growth is so close it scratches the roof. It feels like an eternity down the bush track, but it’s only about ten minutes. Then you’re there. You see the lagoon looking flat, still and glorious.

It’s December in Tassie and the weather is superb.

Maurice’s old one-room shack with its enormous, ancient fireplace, hides behind the scrub. Nearby are all his creations: a pyramid; a windmill to power radio and lights; outbuildings and sheds; a vast flue suspended over an enormous camp fire; sheltered bench seating for 20 and a couple of dinghies. There are woodpiles, water tanks and old cars everywhere. Birds trill, a black snake hides under corrugated iron by the creek and there are no humans in sight. It’s another dimension.

Maurice James Conley was born on a wild, stormy night, 24 November 1917, on the Wainui trading vessel, travelling between Strahan and Hobart. His parents, Athol and Amy, were travelling in her heavily pregnant state to relocate from Queenstown to Bruny Island.

Arriving on Bruny with two small children, Athol acquired a timber mill and built a home for his growing family out of scrap timber. They moved in with only four rooms, eventually expanding to five bedrooms living areas and plenty of outbuildings. There was also a large front room that Athol joked he would never finish before the family left.

“The big front lounge room was never lived in ‘cause he never quite finished ‘til we all left home, so it’s where we kept all the spare socks,” chuckles Maurice.

The five-bedroom house was home to Amy, Athol, their seven sons and extended family. In the early years, Maurice shared a bed with two brothers. Being the middle child, he had the middle spot in the big double bed. When it dipped in the centre, the brothers would roll in and stifle him with the closeness.

At the age of six, each boy started chores. They’d collect kindling, bring cows in for milking, separate the cream, pick strawberries and assist in butchering calves.

“I had to hold the animals, which I’d cry all night about when I was a little kid, and hold it while they butchered it… He hit ‘em in the head with an axe and cut their throat, and then you hold a bucket underneath to catch the blood.”

At six, Maurice also started at Lunawanna Primary School. A competent student with a talent for mathematics, he finished primary school then attended Hobart Technical College in 1930. Soon after however, the Depression hit and Maurice had to leave school at 13, as they could no longer afford 12 shillings a week board.

Maurice returned to assist his father in the family sawmill. His first paid work came when Athol won a contract to repair roads. The contract was worth 14 pounds – a small fortune at the time. The money covered equipment and wages for three men. The 14 pounds from the council was the only income they received that year.

Maurice wheeled sawdust at Clennett’s sawmill for two years before getting a job at 15 driving steam logging locomotives.

“That’s why my back’s like it is today. I got caught up in the timing shaft. Completely stripped off all my winter gear from end to end in two seconds. The timing coupling just caught and then all my winter clothes, my flannel underpants, completely stripped and took the socks out of my boots. Everything was gone. All I had left on was the tape off a singlet ‘round my neck… My back’s like a shelly beach where the coupling went up and down and ground in my back and all my hip… There was a bloke there and an old motorbike, he drove me home to get some more clothes. It was half past four in the afternoon, [the boss] said when he goes home to get clothes on he better have the rest of the afternoon off’… If it could have spun me I would have been mincemeat but it couldn’t spin me because of the wood box.”

Another accident years later left Maurice with a broken neck. Living back on Bruny in 1970 – after his marriage ended and an electrical fire burned his block of units down – Maurice tripped in long grass, fell over a retaining wall and crashed head first into a concrete veranda. By hell did it hurt. The first medical help came from the local nurse, who inexplicably dragged him around for hours attempting to make him walk. They airlifted him to the Austin Hospital in Melbourne for intensive treatment. Maurice was unable to move anything but his tongue for the first few months.

“So you’d have to think of nothing. We had a pegboard ceiling – a huge, big pegboard ceiling. So I’d count the holes in the pegboard ceiling: corner-to-corner, crossways and every way… Interesting life that was, ‘cause you couldn’t move. Just look up.”

Maurice was never expected to walk again. When he finally recovered, he told the doctors, “This is a miracle. You cured me,” But they simply said, “We done nothing for you. We don’t know how – you should never come outa that.”

Recovering from a broken spine isn’t the first miracle Maurice believes in. His family were Catholics – considered ‘religious hypocrites’ in the community.

“I know the time when my grandfather was dying and the good Catholics were down there and they thought he had hours to live so [the priest] came straight to the house and came in to do the last rites… He come to, out of his unconsciousness and said, ‘get that bastard out of this bloody house’ and he lived another 20 years. So the priest cured him.”

Maurice also remembers a much-cherished aunt, sent home to die after a cart accident, who cured herself through faith in Christian Science and lived another 40 years. But his faith was shattered when he and his wife took in a four-year old child, who died from stomach cancer three months later.

“Her name was Lisa and while there, she was like a little angel. She got cancer and died the most terrible agonising death that I ever seen. Standing up in hospital screaming in intense pain, and I switched back to Christian Science in desperation – the last hope. I stood back and watched and it didn’t work and I lost all faith… Everybody at the last looks for something that probably doesn’t exist. You’d’ only do it in desperation.”

Despite times of pain and grief, Maurice also remembers the happy years. Married for 35 years to his childhood sweetheart, June, they were the love story of Bruny Island. Unfamiliar and shy around girls, he first saw her stepping off the ferry and thought she was a bit of alright. They married in 1941, after Maurice enlisted in the army, fearing he might go to war. He had little to fear – his father had one son fighting in England and another recently enlisted, so Athol begged that one be discharged – they tossed a coin and Maurice won. Reg went to war, was wounded and then captured in Timor. While on a Japanese hospital ship en route to Burma, he died when an American submarine sank the ship.

Parenthood soon followed married bliss. Carol, their first-born child, arrived in 1944, followed 18 months later by David. Having children was a life-changing experience.

“It tied your nose to the grindstone a little bit tighter and I suppose [gave you] a reason for existence… They were both big kids and I’d pick the two of them up and carry them about three-quarter mile ‘round the road up to mum and dad’s place. I was that proud of me kids you see. Like all parents.”

Reflecting on his life, Maurice declares proudly,

“I can’t think of anything I’ve done I’m bloody ashamed of. Not even some of the hellish things I’ve done. Even though at the Bruny pub I got called a drunken so-and-so and a bloody murderer. Didn’t worry me in the slightest because I knew that I wasn’t.”  

A curious statement, which perhaps relates to a car accident he was involved in, resulting in the deaths of two motorcyclists.

Maurice says he never drank to excess, but relatives disagree. He became estranged from his family after having an affair with a tenant in his unit block, though the relationship ended during his convalescence in hospital. Dates and facts become confused and shadowy as Maurice refuses to acknowledge any affairs and family members lost contact once they considered him a drunk and a shameless womaniser. He is the last surviving son of Athol and Amy’s seven-son brood. There are few people left to confirm where the truth lies. But one thing is certain – Maurice is fiercely proud and headstrong and, in his declining years, he chooses to focus on the good, not the bad.

He would like to live permanently at Cloudy Bay but access is difficult. He divides his time between Cloudy and Kingston, where he is involved in a 23-year liaison with a woman 32-years his junior. It is a volatile relationship – fuelled with drinking binges. Cloudy Bay is his refuge. He spends weeks there alone. When at Cloudy, Maurice never drinks.

He reflects on life, listens to the cricket, tinkers in his sheds and spends time in the bird sanctuary he created.

He built his shack around a huge fireplace – the only remnant of the old family shack, burned down years ago. Maurice, with friends and family, carted in every plank of wood, piece of tin and nail, by boat, truck and on foot. He constructed everything he requires to lead the simple, peaceful life he loves. The fireplace has water pipes running through to heat water for the shower. It’s so effective you have to cool it down to bathe. There’s a huge bed adjacent to the fire. Opposite, are a couch and desk, and in front of the hearth are two ancient armchairs. Behind is the kitchenette – graced by benches, cupboards and a sink running only cold water. Out front is a protected storage area for valuables. Paintings and photos of his beloved children and grandchildren line the wood-panelled walls. Letters from loved ones and collections of photos fill the drawers. Maurice’s heart and soul are embedded into the foundations of his shack. The only place he truly feels at home.

Relatives remember Maurice as a ladies’ man and a heavy drinker. A man who drank vodka at work and threw away his marriage with affairs. A man who was argumentative and foolish when on a drinking binge and easily seduced by women all his life.

The man I see is an old man – stooped and frail, proud of who he is. A man who filed down old Ford piston rings to fit an old Ronaldson Tippett water pump and designed a swivel shelf for his television when television first arrived. A man who cannot tolerate idleness and loves mental arithmetic. A man who some relatives describe as handsome, smart and charming.

He is my grandfather – largely estranged from the family, I barely remember him at all. Now that I have my own family, I feel a need to reconnect and to give my children the gift of extended family. And he is thrilled to get to know us.

Maurice passed away in July 2012, aged 94.

LETTING GO

I remember, with absolute clarity, the moment my first baby was placed in my arms.

I was lying on the operating theatre table, having a caesarean, tearfully asking if all his fingers and toes were present and accounted for. Then the cord was cut, he was assessed and wrapped, and placed in my arms for my husband and me to adore while the surgeons did what they needed to do. We cried with love and kissed each other and smothered our precious boy in gentle kisses while inhaling the extraordinary scent of newborn baby.

And we fell deeply in love – right there and then – with this miraculous new person.

Until I held him in my arms, I didn’t know there was a whole other way of loving. Not the passionate and lustful love of new romance. Or the eternal and fractious love of family. And not the gentle, familiar, comfortable love of good friends. Holding my own baby in my arms for the first time burned an eternal and unbreakable love into my heart and soul. The sights and sounds and smells of my very own child, a physical part of myself, taught me there is nothing I would not do to love and protect and nurture him – forever.

Those first hours, days, weeks and months were filled with love and dependency, but over time I realised I was raising this little person to leave me – not raising a child, but raising an adult. Hopefully a strong, independent, resilient adult. Those early years – repeated with as much love and awe twice more as his younger brothers came into the world – flew by with frightening speed. Despite the moments I wished away (“This too shall pass!” too often chanted), they were the happiest years of my life. My very own little people – nursing at my breast, snuggling in my arms, crying for cuddles and begging for independence. I never wanted to let them go.

Yet here I am, almost 23 years later, spending time with the young men in my life. Grown into strong, independent, resilient, talented, compassionate young men – making their own mistakes, creating their own communities, living their own lives. And I miss them! The early years of 24 hour a day dependence on me, have morphed into just 2-3 face to face hours a week – on family dinner nights. And soon, that newborn baby I held in my arms and fell in love with, will graduate from university, take a gap year travelling in Europe, then settle down somewhere with his career and new life. I am so incredibly proud of all my boys. And so incredibly grateful they will have the opportunity to live the lives they dream of. But I am also incredibly sad to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the one I focused on when overwhelmed by toddlers and teens, is now burning so brightly I want to shield my eyes and stop the passage of time.

We taught these young men how to read and write, ride pushbikes and clean toilets. They learned how to cope with disappointments and humiliation, as well as success and pride. They’ve made mistakes – big and small – and they’ve made us proud, more often than not. And every time they learned a new skill, they were just a little more independent and a little more grown up. Until the time has come that they don’t need me at all. And I am going to miss them!

I am overwhelmingly grateful to be living in the high tech age of social media with the option to contact anyone, at any time of the day, via messaging or phone calls. I can always stay in touch and watch their lives from afar, when I don’t have them close by to engage with. But oh lordy, I am going to miss these beautiful boys. I miss them already.

Being a mother has been an overwhelming identity for me – one I can’t and won’t let go of. Now my youngest is about to turn 18 and I find myself flailing about in unknown waters, trying to discover what motherhood looks like when all my children are adults. It is a wonderful connection – to sit and watch these beautiful people love and laugh and live their lives. To have adult conversations with young men I once potty trained… it is a surreal experience. Letting go is hard. Much harder than you might think when you’re into yet another month of sleepless nights and cracked nipples – when the years ahead are paved with the all encompassing daily grind of school and sport, tears and tantrums. But it was all so worth it – every hour of every day. Even the four years of my life spent as a passenger in my own car, supervising learner drivers and learning the true meaning of fear and helplessness. Parenting brought me the happiest – and most exhausting – days of my life, and it’s now behind me. The great unknown of forging new relationships and finding a new identity, all ahead of me. It’s frightening, but here we go… in the inimitable words of a great Disney song:

Here I stand
And here I’ll stay
Let the storm rage on!

My power flurries through the air into the ground
My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around
And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast
I’m never going back,
The past is in the past!

Let it go, let it go
And I’ll rise like the break of dawn
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone!

Here I stand
In the light of day
Let the storm rage on,
The cold never bothered me anyway!

CHEER UP, BUTTERCUP

Are you sick to death of hearing about depression? How sad we all are now? It’s an epidemic apparently…

I know I’m sick to death of hearing about it – not because I lack compassion for those with depression, but because I AM one of those people with depression. Apparently. And how depressing is that?!

I could quote you statistics, and tell you about the significant impact of depression on individuals, families, workplaces and the economy – but why bother? There are websites full of this information – specific to the country you reside in – and as fast as I put the stats here, they will change. I will offer one (vague) statistic here though –almost half the population will have a mental health issue (depression, anxiety, substance abuse – just to name a few) at some point in their lives. Fifty per cent of us. Do you know another human? Then statistically speaking, one of you is it.

So why – oh why, oh why – is there still stigma associated with mental health?

Or do we just have a belief there is associated stigma? I am secretly hopeful the shame is abating and the vast majority of us can now offer someone experiencing depression the same compassion and empathy they would for someone “experiencing” diabetes. Even the terminology is dodgy, right? If I have a physical malady I’m sick – I don’t “experience” a cold, glandular fever or cancer, I “have” a cold – or glandular fever, or cancer. But if I’m depressed or anxious, I’m experiencing something that apparently, I can control? The only people who would ever think that, have never experienced it. I’ve yet to hear of an epileptic being told to stop having a seizure – to just display a little more control [okay… there was that really thick “meninist” guy on twitter who claimed women just need better bladder control so they won’t need tampons… but normal intelligent people don’t make such profoundly ignorant statements!] Yet even in the 21st Century, there are clinically depressed people being told to cheer up and put on a happy face.

How the fuck is that helpful?! Excuse my language…

So – just in case you’re somebody that wants to cast blame and aspersions upon those who “choose” to have a mood disorder, here’s a little piece of info for you. Depression is not sadness. Yes – I am confident that a hundred per cent of us have experienced sadness – and sadness can be an experience. It isn’t a malady – it’s a normal human emotion. Just like happiness. And anger. And all the other human emotions.

But depression is not sadness – not even a little bit. Yes – depressed people can experience chronic sadness, just like someone with Parkinson’s Disease can experience tremors – but that isn’t all it is. Otherwise, a depressed person would be able to put on a happy face and cheer up. A nice dose of Bridget Jones and a large tub of ice cream and everything would be okay again! No – depression has actual, for real, physiological and chemical changes in the brain. That is why the pharmaceutical industry has created drugs that help. If there were no brain changes, what would the drugs do? (I’m not a scientist so I can’t really answer that. But I do have a large dose of common sense, and access to the internet.)

I have no doubt everyone’s personal experience of depression is as individual as they are, but for me, this is how a major depressive episode manifested. Firstly, I look back on my 50 years and realise that – due to numerous circumstances, both nature and nurture in origin – I have most likely had a low level of depression and anxiety (hidden behind a façade of joy and strength) my entire life. Then, over a comparatively small number of years, significant major stressful events occurred – too many to name but let’s just say that a lot of people died, a lot of people needed a lot of attention and hands-on care, my marriage suffered, my identity fractured, and eventually I snapped.

What does “eventually I snapped” look like?

My energy levels plummeted – no longer was I super bouncy and hyperactive. I stopped sleeping. I was completely exhausted. My eating disorder (will discuss in a later post) worsened.  I started to self-harm (will also discuss in another later post). I cried a lot. I shook a lot. My heart raced and I had panic attacks. My breathing was frequently ragged. I couldn’t cope with the teensiest little stress (out of cat food? disaster…) I couldn’t get myself to work. I could no longer communicate with people. I couldn’t articulate what I was feeling. Yes, I was sad. But I was sad in the same way an asthmatic is short of breath – without intervention, it was going to kill me. And yes – suicidal ideation was a daily struggle and a forbidden word (yet another thing I will discuss in a later post). The future felt like a black hole – I couldn’t picture anything but death, destruction and disaster. The present felt like I was drowning in mud. The past felt like a string of bad decisions and broken dreams. I couldn’t put on a happy face – I couldn’t remember where I’d put it… I lost the ability to adequately care for myself – let alone my husband, my children, my father, my grandmother, my friends, my students and my colleagues. A lifetime of looking out for everyone else, and now I couldn’t gather the energy to send a text message. All I could manage was to get out of bed so I could lie on the couch. I stopped eating (at the time of my admission to the clinic I hadn’t eaten anything for nearly two weeks). I hoped I would die.

And yet of the many clinically depressed people I have met, I know I’m one of the luckiest ones. I have a fantastic, supportive, understanding, circle of friends and family. People who asked how I was – with genuine concern and all the time in the world to listen. People who just turned up at my house, without forcing me to discuss what was going on – just stayed and made sure I was safe. As someone with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, I couldn’t burden anyone with my problems and stresses – I didn’t want anyone to worry. Over time I did however, divulge a little of what was going on to a lot of different people – without divulging everything that was going on to any one person. I also found a great doctor and psychologist I’m comfortable and confident with, and later came under the care of a good psychiatrist. So, there are a lot of people on my team.

I eventually spent three weeks in a mental health unit (voluntarily) – admitted with major depression and anxiety, eating disorder and self-harm. I started anti-depressants and attended daily therapy sessions. And I slept, slept, slept. I finally released four years of unresolved, pent up grief after the traumatic death of my sister. I cried a lot. I slept even more and I talked with other patients. I started to eat – not willingly… but I was determined I would not be admitted involuntarily to the psychiatric ward.

In the clinic, I was privileged to meet some of the most incredibly kind, compassionate and caring people I have ever come across.

While everyone’s story was different – and reasons for admission covered a large gamut of mental health issues (addiction, bi-polar, post-traumatic stress, anorexia – to name a few), there were two things we almost all had in common – some degree of depression and anxiety. And there were a depressing number of people who experienced judgment and ignorance regarding their diagnosis. So, in case you are a judgmental, ignorant person (unlikely I know… judgmental, ignorant people don’t usually google information on depression…) here are a few tips on what NOT to say to someone experiencing a psychological crisis:

• I know how you feel

No you don’t. Just like I don’t know how someone feels if their spouse just died! I can imagine (guess…) it would be horrendous, and I can imagine (guess) how I think I might personally feel – but we never really know how someone else is feeling.

• You’ll be right in the morning

Are you serious?! Depression is not a 24-hour stomach bug. If I’ve been slowly deteriorating over the past 12 months, statistically speaking it is unlikely I’ll be feeling any better tomorrow.

• Just think positively

Do you think I haven’t tried that? Do you consider me so stupid and self-absorbed, I would just wallow around in misery for a year and try to get a little bit worse each day? However inconvenient my depression may be for you, it’s way more miserable for me…

• I don’t get depressed because I’m emotionally strong

I’m not depressed because I’m emotionally weak. In fact, that’s just insulting. My depression is the culmination of a whole pile of circumstances – innate personality, upbringing, messages I’ve received throughout my life, stresses I’ve experienced, and maladaptive coping strategies I (foolishly) thought would work.

• You can’t be depressed – you’re up, dressed and smiling

The inability to get out of bed, get dressed, or move the corners of my lips into an upward trajectory, is the very final stage of debilitating depression. Nobody morphs from one hundred per cent happy to one hundred per cent depressed overnight – it’s a long, gradual process. And if I don’t change things before I get to that end-stage, I may be dead before I get better…

• You have so many wonderful things going for you

Don’t you think I already know that?! All those positives might be the only thing stopping me from killing myself. All those positives might be an overwhelming burden. All those positives may be smoke and mirrors. Those wonderful kids I adore – have they grown up and left home? That awesome husband of mine – have we drifted apart? Our fantastic home – is it a shattered dream or a financial pit? My wonderful career – has it become 36 years of shattered dreams and disappointments? If you haven’t walked in my shoes, don’t judge. Don’t EVER judge me.

I’m sure there are tons more – every clinically depressed person has heard them all… Want to know why these statements suck? Because you haven’t heard what I said! You’ve haven’t seen me. If I say I can’t cope, what I actually mean is, I can’t cope. If I say my life has lost meaning, to me it has lost meaning – don’t argue with me, that will make me feel worse! And don’t you dare tell me I’m looking much better if I just told you I’m feeling much worse. I need you to hear me. We all need to be heard. Instead of judging me, here’s what depressed (and non-depressed) people might want to hear: How are you? Do you want to hang out? Do you need to talk? Is there anything I can do? I’m happy to chat any time you like. Here’s a nice flower I found for you. Or better still folks, say nothing and just give me a hug…

It is nearly six months since I left the clinic – and I hope never to return. I am still learning to deal with all the stresses that landed me in such a dark place and I am not always getting everything right. I am in a much better place than I was, but I’m not in as good a place as I could be. I still struggle with purpose and hope. I still struggle with my eating disorder and self-harm. I haven’t found my identity and I haven’t repaired all the faulty relationships. I am learning to prioritise my own health – occasionally – and I remain eternally grateful for the small circle of awesome people who have loved me and cared for me when I couldn’t do it for myself. I can’t remember the last time I felt true joy – I really can’t… And some days I fear I will never experience it again. I remember contentment and laughter and satisfaction and pride – I even experience them occasionally these days. But joy? I can’t remember. Perhaps one day?

It took a long time to fall down the rabbit hole – I guess it will take some time to crawl back out.

LITTLE SISTER

Vanessa Elizabeth Yemm

My little sister passed away in July 2012 after a 29 year battle with mental health issues. She was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder as a young woman and experienced multiple suicide attempts over the years. She developed problem drinking behaviours at age 26 and died age 40 from alcohol-related liver failure. She was largely criticised and ostracised by the wider community for “failing” to make the necessary changes to fit in, and to care for herself.

Yet she had many wonderful qualities frequently overlooked by those not able to see beyond her illness. I was fortunate enough to be able to care for her in the last months of her life. This is the eulogy that was read out on my behalf at her funeral.

My little sister was born at the Southport Hospital on Friday 30 July 1971. She was the last addition to our family – our parents Carrol & Gordon, me (Simone), Christian (who died as a baby), Kristin and then Vanessa. She arrived with shiny jet black hair and a touch of jaundice, and mum always said she looked like a beautiful Japanese doll.

Some of you know her as Ness, others remember her as Vee, to Jamie she is mum, but to me she is always Vanessa – the tiny newborn I cuddled at the hospital when dad sneaked me in. Later she was the little girl I dressed up –curling her hair in rags, dressing up in a clown suit and painted face.

As kids, I was stubborn and difficult, my brother was hyperactive and adventurous, but Vanessa was sweet and adorable and would do anything for anyone. She followed her big brother everywhere. When he wasn’t feeling brave he’d always get her to do things. “Go on Nessie – crawl under the house!” She always did it. Kris loved stirring her and calling her names like loch ness monster or brat. He’d get her to put her fingers in the power socket, or he’d pull the ladder out from under her on the bunk beds. They were so close in age and so alike, they were like twins. I was jealous of their closeness and I was quite a few years older.

They would look at my pale, freckly skin and red curly hair and tell me I was adopted. For years I wondered if it was true!

Vanessa loved to sit on Dad’s knee as he bounced her up and down, singing “Horsey Horsey don’t you stop.” Dad loved to fish and we would visit all sorts of rocky outcrops and blowholes in search of the perfect parrot fish. Mum always worried it was too dangerous but he held her hand and took her anyway.

Vanessa adored Mum – the ultimate housewife, keeping everything neat and tidy, shined to perfection, and in its place. After making beds each morning, Vanessa would trot along behind, sucking her two fingers, pulling the pillows off and throwing them on the floor. She spent her entire life searching for love and attention from mum. Her first day of kindergarten she clung to mum, kicking and screaming, begging not to go. The teacher ended up with a kick in the face.

We moved to Brisbane in 1972 and behind our house there was a bush track. Grandma would take the two toddlers along the track to see the ducks the geese and the dog. I’m sure it was from Grandma she developed a lifelong love of animals.

Somewhere around age 12, when we lived in Ballina NSW, she lost her way. The adorable, obedient little girl morphed into an uncontrollable wildling.

Nobody knows why, but inner demons would follow her for a lifetime.

Vanessa’s childhood friend Michelle remembers her ready, warm smile. As a teen in Ballina, she preferred skimpy clothing and Michelle’s mum used to call her ‘fried eggs’ when she arrived in a shirt that didn’t quite cover everything. The two girls spent their days at Shaws Bay swimming and skinny dipping. On rainy days they’d run to the bottom of the hill, sit in big puddles with swimming caps on and wait for cars to pass and splash them with mud and water. When Michelle fell pregnant, Vanessa declared if she ever had a son he’d be called Hot Dog, a daughter would be called Ice. Let’s all be grateful for a moment of maturity a year or so later when she settled on the name Jamie for a boy or a girl.

In 1987 she fell pregnant. She told the story many times of finding out she was pregnant, sitting alone on a park bench with an apple and a drink and thinking, “I’m going to raise this baby and to hell with everyone else. It’s meant to be.” In a letter to mum she wrote, “I am a mother to be. I know you think I’m too young to look after a baby but I’m going to try my hardest to care and love my child as much as I can and be a good mum.”

April Fool’s Day 1988 beautiful Jamie was born. He is an absolute blessing and became her guardian angel. I know she loved him to bits and despite the ups and downs, she did the best she knew how.

She always said I love you, and despite many tough times, provided a roof over their heads and made a home. She had a great knack for managing to get people to do things with her – even when they were reluctant.

She loved dancing, studied drama, and tried to establish herself in the world of modelling. In her early 20’s she was a stunning young woman but by now her inner demons were coming to the fore and she was heading towards her first breakdown.

In 1993 she met Duncan on the Gold Coast – he became the love of her life. She spent years travelling the east coast with him on his yacht– soaking up the sun and showing off her fabulous figure. She became the life of the party and she loved to party. I’m sure everyone here remembers her humour – something she maintained until her dying day.

Around 25, Vanessa was introduced to whiskey which led to a slow decline in her health and behaviour over the next 15 years. Despite the depression, the anxiety and all the fights, she always just wanted to feel loved and cared for. She had an eternal passion for laughter, for joking, for being hospitable and for being a friend.

Everyone talks of her big heart, her compassion and her ability to sit and listen, to offer encouragement and compliments to those in need.

Her niece Abbi loved dancing with Ness to Saxobeat and Moves Like Jagger. And nephew Ethan loved sharing her precious chup-a-chups. Sister-in-law Rachael loved staying up late, talking, watching tv and laughing. One visit they went parasailing on the spit, something Rachael could never have done solo. Vanessa always had great spirit and courage.

Her friend Jazz tells the story of a disco ball light she gave Ness. They visited the police station for Jazz to make a statement. The officers were fascinated with her disco ball, still in its box. They asked if they could turn it on then turned out all the lights at the police station and everyone enjoyed the disco lit station for a few minutes.

Over the years Ness lived in the Nautilus Apartments she met so many of the residents. Her door was always open. She loved them. She fought with them. She drank with them. She comforted them. She welcomed them in. She yelled at them. In the end, everything was always forgiven.

Rachael remembers her humour and the way she could take a serious situation and make a joke out of it. She was a great support person and always inspired confidence, saying “You’re doing such a good job”. They loved to do silly things. One day Ness helped Rachelle deliver some papers. One house had a box out the front and Rachelle jokingly said, “Go on Ness! Have a look in it!” Ness grabbed the whole box and put it in the car. “You told me to do it and I always do what I’m told!” Ironically, there were 12 bottles of wine in it! She kept them! They played yahtzee or watched Prisoner and bagged out all the actors because they’re so ugly! She was a good friend.

At the start of June, the first time I came to visit after she was so ill, we got to know each other again.

It was a privilege and an honour for me to spend time with my sister in the last weeks of her life. I remember her one day watching a music video of Party Rock Anthem. She felt a bit more energetic than usual, got out of her chair, cigarette in hand, in her pj’s slippers and purple woolly jacket and pink beanie and starting shuffling. She was so happy she could still shake it! She had a beautiful smile on her face.

Many people judged Vanessa over the years. They saw a drunk. A weak person. Someone who fought and swore like a trooper. Someone afraid of doctors and authorities. What they failed to see was the fighter – someone trying to fight inner demons that are now finally at rest. I remember my sister.

Beautiful. Funny. Damaged. Depressed. Loving. Supportive. Exotic. Anxious. Sensitive. Stubborn. Caring. Independent. Gone.

HIGH NOTES

There is a well-known Zimbabwean proverb:
“If you can walk, you can dance. If you can talk, you can sing”.

Yet until you have truly danced and sung it is hard to appreciate the depth of this statement.

Solo singing requires a hefty amount of confidence and perhaps a touch of talent to feel truly successful, but anyone can join a choir and enjoy great choral singing.

Throughout Australia, choirs are in abundance, and Tasmania is purported to have the largest number of choral groups per head of population. So what makes choral singing so popular and why do we do it?

A choir is like a complex organism – a beautiful, organic machine. The chorister is merely a single cell within – part of the whole, but never the whole of the part. The conductor is the beating heart of this beautiful creature. If the heart falters, the unity will dissolve.

The amorphous sound of great choral music is an amazing experience. The massive swell of sound that is created as a chorus climaxes through a phrase becomes a part of you and you a part of it, sweeping you into highs and lows of emotional intensity.

Rehearsals build the structure that will ultimately deliver the musical objectives. The chorister grows in courage to sing notes at the right pitch and in the right place, with the right frame of mind and the right musical clarity.

Watching the conductor enables not only rhythmic unison but also shapes and blends the music. If a conductor asks a choir to smile before they sing, the quality is immediately more radiant, bright and beautiful.

In choral singing, you can experience the raw passion of a perfectly executed crescendo, the heartbreaking “angelicness” of a pure soprano entry and the depths of the bass voice vibrating the soles of your feet. As the voices climax, the music vibrates everything you touch. The unity of movement in a choir is an incredibly spiritual expression for many people.

Blending human voices until they resonate as one is a unique and powerful expression of the human psyche.

Friendships are made. Endorphins are released. Music is created. As German composer Paul Hindemith once stated, “People who make music together cannot be enemies, at least while the music lasts”.

WHO AM I?

Who Am I? Really?! When I was young – I thought I knew the answer for sure. Now I’ve turned 50, I’ve found I have no idea.

We all have multiple identities.

There’s the relationships – daughter, mother, wife, friend, colleague. The day to day – musician, writer, teacher, carer, gym enthusiast. And personality – quiet, passionate, loyal, perfectionist, sensitive. But as I muddled through my life, I forgot everything is temporary. Everything! Where once I may have felt extroverted, now I feel like an introvert. Or when I dreamed of being a flautist, now I’m ready to leave music behind me. Slowly my identities are changing – and I have no concept of what my new roles are. Who will I be when I’m not caring for my children every day? When I’m no longer a flautist or teacher? When the roles I became comfortable and confident in disappear and my new roles are tenuous and uncertain? I have no idea! And it scares the bejeezers out of me.

I am sure at many stages we all experience these feelings. When growing from a teenager into adulthood. Or finishing education and going out into the workplace. Becoming a mother. A wife. Losing – and sometimes gaining – family members and friends. When changing directions or moving house. Life is such a precious and fragile thing and for some it may be easy to embrace the changes as they come along – to live in the present and not fixate on the unknown futures. But for me, the great unknown is terrifying.

As I’ve navigated the road of my life, I’ve found myself wearing a mask more often than not – and as an expert wearer, I’ve become adept at identifying the happy facade plastered across so many people’s faces. In almost all of my many roles, I was upbeat and enthusiastic. I encouraged the best from my students and placated the nerves of my fellow musicians. I’ve sought the best in everyone I’ve met, and forgiven the failings. I’ve tried to treat everyone I met with kindness, compassion and caring – secretly hoping that a little may be reflected back at me. But I also learned, very early on, few truly want to hear about my own fears and uncertainties, so positive talk and a beautiful smile prevailed. But who was I really kidding?! The more emotions hidden behind a smile, and the more buried those fears and uncertainties become, the more false my identity – and the more normal that has become. Maladaptive coping skills are my norm at home, while the facade of a strong, cheerful and independent woman is presented to the world.Until the proverbial hits the fan and reality hits like a ton of bricks.

For me personally, the past two years have shown we can only pretend for so long. One day – when the children were grown, and beloved family members starting dying at an alarming rate, and the sick and elderly required constant caring – that is when the mask became too exhausting to maintain. And when all the secret identities, previously hidden for shame and fear, came to the fore – and life falls apart – then what? Who knows…

Apparently, that is what I now have to discover for myself.